Haunted Dreams
by VattaKeto
Summary: After the Witch Trials, Hale's dreams have been visited by the dead John Proctor. But, he is not the only one haunted. Meanwhile, someone in Salem seeks revenge, and murder seems the easiest way to achieve it.
1. Chapter 1

Hale tossed and turned in his sleep as the faces of the dead and dying tortured him relentlessly.

"We were innocent, Hale. "They whispered as they clawed at him and dragged his sobbing tear stained form to the platform. "You were wrong. We were innocent. You're naïve faith in the good in people was misplaced. You were wrong, Hale. "Upon the platform lay a single noose, ready for its next victim. "No! No, oh please just no! No, no, please! Nonooooo!" His pleas of mercy dragged off into screams as the scratches became deeper, and the litany of the dead became more persistent as a man dressed all in black slowly, but surely walked over to where Hale sat on his knees next to the noose. The black cloaked man pulled his hood back, to reveal the face of the late John Proctor.

Hale's sobbing stopped as he looked at the face of the man who wouldn't confess. "Confess, _Reverend_." Proctor told him mockingly as he pulled the noose down around the shaking man's neck. "Confess that you were wrong and that these people were not witches." Tears were streaming down Hale's face, "I have! I have confessed; to God, to myself, please man, have mercy! I _tried!_ God as my witness, I tried to stop those cursed trials but I could not. I could not! Oh, please, John! Just stop this madness!" But the figure that was John Proctor merely grinned manically as he walked over to the lever and said "God damns all liars Reverend." The lever was pulled and Hale felt himself falling... Falling... Falling...

Something struck his head, and he realized that he had hit the floor of his room, next to his bed. "Safe!" He cried, "Oh, thank The Lord, it was only a dream!"

Author's note: Hi! I've admired the works of the other stories for the Crucible, and was inspired to write this after seeing the play. This will eventually become a multi chapter fic (I've written out quite a bit and so far its 20 chapters long! How did that happen... :)

Reviews are welcome, even if you just say 'hi, I liked it.' or 'hi, needs work.' This is only my second story, and my first really long one, so any criticism at all would be really nice!


	2. Parris's dream

**Author's Note: So here we are, chapter two at last! Took us long enough :) **

**This story will probably end up being updated one-three times a week, depending on how time we have to write. And because this was a good week, we'll have chapter three up sometime tomorrow :) But for now, enjoy Parris's haunted dreams... (even I know that was a really bad pun)**

Elsewhere in Salem, Parris also tossed and turned in his sleep as the faces of the dead and dying tortured him relentlessly. "We were innocent, Parris. "They whispered as they clawed at him and dragged his sobbing tear stained form to the platform. "You were wrong. We were innocent. Your niece was wrong. Danforth was wrong. _You_ were wrong, Parris. "Upon the platform lay a single noose, ready for its next victim. "No! No, oh please just no! No, no, please! Nonooooo!" His pleas of mercy dragged off into screams as the scratches became deeper, and the litany of the dead became more persistent as a man dressed all in black slowly, but surely walked over to where Parris had been forced onto his knees next to the noose. The black cloaked man pulled his hood back, to reveal the face of the late John Proctor.

"Parris's sobbing stopped as he looked on in fear at the face of the man whom he had prosecuted and sentenced to hang. "Confess, man." Proctor told him mockingly as he pulled the noose down around the shaking man's neck. "Confess that you were wrong and that these people were not witches." Tears were streaming down Parris face, "I have not done anything wrong, there were witches... There _were_ witches in Salem," his voice trailed off as he choked on his sobs. "Please, Proctor! Just _stop_! Stop this madness!" But the figure that was John Proctor merely grin manically as he walked over to the lever and said "God damns all liars Reverend." The lever was pulled and Parris felt himself falling... Falling... Falling...


	3. Chapter 3

**I did promise chapter three today, so here it is! I feel like I should apologize in advance for what happens in this chapter... fair warning both authors teared up a bit working on this chapter. And with that: enjoy chapter three!**

Something struck his head, and he realized that he had hit the floor of his room, next to his bed. "Oh God, forgive me! I have sinned, oh; I have sinned more than those who were hung. Oh God, what have I done?" He clutched his head and wept until he heard feet padding along the floors. A very pale faced Betty clutched the doorway, "Papa? Are you... alright?" She asked hesitantly. Paris looked up at the sickly girl, his tear stained face softening, "Of course, my child. Now, get back to bed. "He pulled himself off the floor and tucked her back in bed. He could hear her panting for breath as she padded back down the little hall. Parris made a mental note to fetch the doctor to check on his dear little girl as he tucked the child back into her bed.

As she drifted off to sleep, Betty's breathing became harsher. Parris, who had started to nod off, was jerked awake by this terrible sound. "Betty? Betty!" He shook the child, hoping to wake her, and tears began to stream down his cheeks as she stopped making the noises... And stopped breathing altogether. "No! Betty! My child, my dear, dear child! Please, no!" He held the still form of his little daughter as the sunlight began to creep through the shades. "Oh God, what have I done to deserve this?" He froze as his words triggered his memory of the horrible dream. "Oh." His eyebrows rose so high, they appeared to fly off his face, "Oh God, oh gracious Lord, is this your just punishment? Why did you have to take Betty? Why her, why my dear, sweet, beloved, innocent child? Why, oh why-y" his voice trailed off into more sobs. A shadow passed across the window, but Parris could not care less for such material things. Instead, he cradled his only child, whose little form would move no more, in his arms. He stayed this way for God-only-knows how long before a knock at the door make him freeze.


End file.
